Saving Face
by GreyGregory14
Summary: When Face is ready to fall off the edge, what's it going to take to pull him back? One-shot, Face's POV.


_A/N: This story occurs a little while after_ Making Reservations, _so I_ _really shouldn't be publishing this until I finish Ch 8 of_ MR _, but I'm sleep deprived so we'll blame that for my poor judgment (also Ch 8 is in the works). I greatly enjoyed writing this because it's (very loosely) inspired by things I've been learning and working through in my own life, so the writing process was rather cathartic. The title is obviously a play on words, but is also a nod to the recent movie_ Saving Mr. Banks _about P.L. Travers._

 **Saving Face**

"I already told you, Hannibal, I have no idea what happened!"

The words came out angrier than I meant for them to . . . but the repeated questions made me angrier than I should have been. I ran a hand through my hair and tried to focus on breathing. Oddly, I was starting to feel short of breath again, and kind of thirsty. That had become common enough recently that I wouldn't think anything of it, if it hadn't been for last night.

Hannibal didn't say anything. At least that meant he wasn't asking questions I couldn't answer. Not even three doctors, a cardiologist, a gastroenterologist, or an endocrinologist could answer them. All they could tell me was that I had an apparently healthy and functioning heart, lungs, digestion, thyroid, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And I wasn't dying. Small comfort.

Hannibal got up from his chair in the living room where we were sitting, walked into the kitchen, and came back with two glasses of water. I took the one he handed me and drank half the glass. That would ease my thirst for a little while. And now I had something to occupy my hands.

"What are you going to do next?" he asked quietly.

"Well, since there's nothing actually wrong with me," I said, not even trying to hide the bitter edge in my voice, "maybe if I ignore it, it'll go away."

Hannibal gave a humorless laugh. "And we saw how well that worked out for you last night."

Ah yes. Last night.

It had been just over a year since we coerced Stockwell into giving us our pardons. Then we'd all moved to Chicago for a while, and eventually split up and gone our own ways. BA, of course, stayed in Chicago with his momma, and he got a job as an ambulance driver, working at the local youth center on the side. Murdock also stayed nearby and, last I heard, was giving helicopter tours of the city, complete with loop-de-loops. Hannibal moved back to L.A. to star in Aquamaniac 4. But personally, I decided it was time to try my luck elsewhere and soon found myself under the shadow of Lady Liberty in New York City. The Big Apple provided a whole new world of scams waiting to be run, VIP parties waiting to be crashed, and women waiting to be wined and dined, _and_ there were no MPs lurking around to ruin my fun. More than ever before, I was in my element.

Then, the symptoms started. At first, I just became exhausted more easily than usual, and sometimes got dizzy after standing up too quickly, but I blamed this on lingering effects from my gunshot wound at Villa Cucina. The occasional heart palpitations and shortness of breath were harder to ignore, but seemed harmless enough. Even the nervous indigestion didn't have to mean anything; I'd always gotten a little queasy before high-stakes events, and right now I was building an entire world for myself among the elite of society. If I kept busy, I could forget about it, and eventually my body would fall into line.

Except that it didn't. Months later, I was visiting doctors and specialists of all kinds, trying to figure out why on top of everything else I was always exhausted, and prone to dizziness, and feeling hot and sick when I didn't have a fever, and getting nauseous enough to throw up at least once a week. Examinations, blood tests, breathing tests, GI tests, and even a heart ultrasound found absolutely nothing. The only definitive conclusions were that I had unusually low blood pressure, which could be contributing to some of the symptoms. Having no answers, they attempted to blame the problem on stress and tried to put me on an antidepressant, but I refused. When I'd tried antidepressants for a while in high school, I ended up in the hospital – not because of the medicine, exactly, but because of what it made me try to do.

By this time, I was getting worried. If the doctors couldn't find an answer, then how would I know what to do to fix the problem? Would I keep getting worse and worse until I could no longer function, unable to do anything to stop my downhill decline? Desperate for a solution, I did take one of the doctors' advice (which one I couldn't remember) and eat more carefully in an attempt to find whether particular foods were causing my digestive distress. I also started drinking more water to hopefully keep my blood pressure under control. But nothing seemed to help. Experimenting with my diet simply added another complication to my already hectic schedule, and no matter what I ate, I still periodically got sick to my stomach. I became afraid to ask girls out, never knowing whether I might start feeling too exhausted or too unwell and have to cut the date off early. I had to cut back on meetings, parties, and other appointments, and spent a lot of my free time sleeping. Over eight months I lost ten more pounds in addition to the six I'd lost since the shooting. All in all, I was miserable.

Last night, however, was the straw that broke . . . well, me. There was an exclusive dinner party at the Hyatt that plenty of movers and shakers in the business world would be attending. It was an opportunity too good to miss, and since I seemed to have enough energy, I decided to attend. Upon sitting down to dinner, however, I was only a few sips into the white wine when I realized something was wrong. Although I was sitting down, dizziness and spatial disorientation crept over me, and my stomach twisted with growing nausea. Soon it became apparent I needed to reach the men's room post haste. But I only made it a few steps from my seat before I collapsed and passed out.

When I woke up, an ambulance had been called, the staff were prepared with a receptacle to protect the expensive Persian rug from my inevitable emesis, and I'd made a lasting impression on multiple CEOs of various Fortune 500 companies – though it was a far cry from what I'd intended. In short, the night was absolutely and totally ruined.

At the hospital, the doctor couldn't find anything wrong with me except that I was slightly dehydrated and had an unusually low blood pressure and erratic heartbeat, as well as an apparently upset stomach. None of that should have been enough for me to pass out; as a soldier I'd been through hell and back, for crying out loud. But the doctor wanted me to stay overnight for monitoring, especially when he found out I lived alone and didn't have anyone to drive me home. Not tonight.

That was how I spent last night in the hospital – alone, confused, frustrated, and fighting panic at the idea that something was so wrong with me I could collapse without warning at any moment. And that was how I ended up calling Hannibal and pouring out the whole story. Just hearing his voice on the phone was comforting, and when he told me he would fly up to New York the very next day, I was more relieved than I cared to admit. When I got out of the hospital in the morning, I took a cab and picked up my Vette from the Hyatt, and then spent the rest of the day in my latest penthouse suite in my pajamas, eating canned chicken soup, watching TV, and trying to sleep.

Around 5 p.m., the doorbell rang. When Hannibal called earlier that morning to check on me, he insisted he would take a cab from the airport since he didn't want me driving to LaGuardia and back through late January rush hour traffic. So when the doorbell rang, I flung the door open to see Hannibal standing there, duffel bag in one hand, grinning.

"Hey kid," he said, reaching out with his free arm for a hug. I gratefully obliged, and the familiar, macho back-slapping ritual made my eyes water.

"It's so good to see you," I blurted out finally, stepping back to let him come inside and taking his coat. He dropped his duffel on the plush carpet next to the door, looked me up and down, and said, "We need to talk."

Half an hour later, I'd told him everything from the multiple doctor visits to a more detailed recap of last night's fiasco. He listened with concern, nodding and asking questions to look for important details I might have missed. But I'd already thought of everything. I'd left no stone unturned. Technically speaking, there wasn't anything wrong with me. Yet here I was.

We'd fallen into silence after Hannibal's comment about last night. At last he said, "Sorry, I shouldn't be sarcastic. I just want to help you."

I nodded and shrugged. "Three doctors and three specialists have tried and failed, but you're welcome to take a shot at it."

He took a sip of water, set his glass on the coffee table with a small clunk, and sat back in the sleek brown leather armchair, resting his right ankle on top of the opposite knee.

"Have you had any nightmares lately?" he asked.

I stiffened, caught off guard by the question. "No more than usual."

Hannibal must have picked up on my evasive tone. "Meaning?" he prompted.

"Well, I've had some off and on ever since I got shot." I sighed. "Probably since the trial."

"What about?"

My irritation was rising again. "Getting shot by a firing squad, getting shot by armed thugs in a restaurant, and . . ." I stopped, realizing how silly the rest would sound after the life-or-death scenarios.

"Keep going."

"Messing up a transaction. Having all my deals go south." I cleared my throat. "And, uh, sitting in a room full of people at a party and realizing I'm . . . I'm dying, and nobody notices."

Hannibal didn't say anything. I reached down and scratched my ankle so I could break eye contact. The room was getting cold. Of course, nowadays I was always cold.

"Why didn't you tell anyone about your nightmares?"

"Because there's no point!" I shot back, fed up with the interrogation. "I can't take antidepressants or I'll get suicidal, and I'm not about to let some shrink tell me all my problems came from my traumatic childhood, 'cause there's not a lot I can do about that, now is there?"

I hated the look Hannibal was giving me. It looked like he might be considering feeling sorry for me. I wanted to tell him there was no need since I was fully capable of being pathetic without an audience, but was too upset to add anything coherent to my outburst. After draining the rest of my glass, I crossed my arms and stared at my socks. Blue and gray argyle. Surprisingly soft, but too thin for New York winter. Should have chosen something warmer . . . after all, I didn't go anywhere today. I didn't even talk to anyone except Hannibal. And at the moment, whatever he was thinking about me had nothing to do with my sense of style.

"You don't need antidepressants, Face."

Too soon to look up.

"And you don't need a shrink. What you need is to start living in reality."

I looked up then, not sure whether to be offended. "Are you going to lecture me, because I don't think . . ."

"I'm not gonna lecture you. I'm being completely serious."

He leaned forward and tried to make eye contact, but I avoided it.

"Face, you live in a world of make believe. Nobody in this city knows who you really are. To them, you're just another foothold in their social climb. All they care about is whether you'll get them what they want. That puts a lot of pressure on you to deliver - to dress just right, and talk just right, and be exactly what they want you to be. And what can you expect in return? Money? Privileges? Access to clubs and parties? Another 'transaction' or 'deal,' as you seem to be calling your scams now? You live in an apartment that doesn't belong to you, under a name that's not your own, and when you end up in the hospital, not even the girlfriend we heard about when you called at Christmas is around to take you home. Tell me, what's wrong with this picture?"

I couldn't say anything. I felt like he'd dunked my head in a bucket of ice water. Was that really all he thought my life consisted of now? Empty, meaningless . . . posturing?

"Why didn't you get together with the rest of the team at Christmas?" he said, pulling no punches. "Surely your girlfriend would have understood. Because we sure didn't."

"Maybe I didn't come because I was afraid of this!" I gestured emphatically. "All you guys ever do is criticize me. When I try to do nice things for you, it's never good enough. I'm never good enough. You don't believe I'm capable of making a life for myself, but let me tell you, I'm not that kid fresh out of college anymore, Hannibal. I can survive without you just fine!"

As anger flowed through me, instead of a rush of adrenaline, shaky exhaustion settled in my bones. My stomach churned. Not again.

"Oh, I get it. Is that why you called me last night?"

The sarcasm was too much. "Well, that was obviously a mistake," I said. "I forgot just how helpful you can be, so thank you for reminding me. But now that my lecture's over, I guess that means you're free to go. You've done your duty, _Colonel_."

With my final words, I rose and started walking quickly toward the bedroom, needing a time out before my frustration grew beyond my control. Suddenly, my vision faded out, and I found myself groping for something to hold onto as balance deserted me.

"Hey, kid, take it easy." Hannibal came up and slipped a supportive arm around me. "You okay?"

That was when I lost it. To my horror, I not only broke down; I went full-out hysterical, somehow laughing and sobbing simultaneously, uncontrollably – and there was nothing I could do to stop.

Without a word, Hannibal guided me back to the couch, sat down next to me, and held onto me while I convulsed with laughter, tears streaming down my face.

"It's all right," he said. "You're all right. Just let it out."

Like there was anything else I could do. A couple minutes later I had burned the last of my hysterical energy. But that left me at less than zero, now vulnerable to the nausea that had never really left.

"I'm gonna be sick," I said, the effort needed to simply sit up straight making me feel even worse. "And I can't get up."

Hannibal jumped up and brought me the nearest wastebasket just in time. Once my insides reached temporary equilibrium again, he set the wastebasket a few feet away, came back, and took the green blanket draped over the back of the couch and wrapped it around my shoulders. He wrapped his arm on top of that, and I rested against him and closed my eyes for a few seconds.

"I'm so sorry, kid," he said. "I shouldn't have pushed you so hard. It's just that you've got me scared."

I took a deep, shaky breath. "It's okay," I said quietly. "I-I didn't mean what I said. I'm glad you came, because I'm kind of scared too."

He patted my arm. "I wasn't trying to lecture you, but . . . well, you know me. There's a reason I went into the military and not psychiatry."

I laughed a little – a natural laugh this time. "Maybe you should have sent Murdock."

Hannibal laughed too. "Well, I might not know the lingo like he does, but I think I have an idea what's going on. How about we make a deal: I'll try to do a better job explaining what I was saying before, and you try not to throw up on me. How does that sound?"

I smiled in spite of myself. "I like it."

"Okay." He pulled a pillow out from behind him and shifted a little. "I think your doctors are right. You're extremely stressed, Face, and probably depressed as well. For one thing, you've had several traumatic experiences in the last couple years, including getting captured, tried, and nearly executed, getting shot and almost bleeding to death, and even more personal issues, like finding out who your father was."

My smile had completely faded by now. I still wondered sometimes whether telling Hannibal about my connection to A.J. was the right decision, since it was the kind of information that could be used to hurt me, even if unintentionally. But so far, this was the first time he'd brought it up. Nonetheless, I was relieved when he continued with a different topic.

"Granted, you'd think ten years on the run from the government would be a lot more stressful than what you're doing right now, but I don't think it was. Back then, you had a purpose of helping people that went beyond yourself, and you had the security of working as part of the team. At the moment, you have none of that. Right now, your entire livelihood depends on making strangers like you, so that's what you worry about every minute of the day. You make all your decisions based on other people's expectations for you. You're losing yourself. And that's enough to make anyone fall apart."

I nodded. He was right. I knew he was right. And, to my surprise, it was kind of a relief . . . but also a disappointment. I'd come out here, away from everything familiar, to try to make a successful life on my own. But I'd just fallen back into the way of living that was all I knew: pretending to be somebody else making a successful life. Because, deep down, I knew I couldn't do it myself.

"Now," said Hannibal, "if I'm going to be a good psychiatrist, I need to ask you some questions, but don't think I'm trying to accuse you of anything. I just want to help you figure things out for yourself. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Can you tell me the real reason you came out to New York instead of staying in Chicago or L.A., and why every time one of us tried to call you, you cut the conversation short, and why you always had an excuse for not coming out to visit? After knowing each other for almost twenty years, you practically drop off the map, and that doesn't make sense, unless maybe you're avoiding something, or hiding something."

I pulled the blanket closer around me. "I don't know, Hannibal. I . . . I guess I have been avoiding you guys." That much was obvious, but my thoughts needed to gain traction. He simply waited for me to continue.

"It's just . . . after we got our pardons, for the first time in my life, I wasn't stuck in some system. Before the military, it was college, and before that, of course, the orphanage. But now I'm free, and I guess I just wanted to prove to myself I could be what I'd always wanted to be. I wanted to enjoy life as part of the upper crust, and since the government wasn't looking for me anymore, the only thing standing in my way was you guys."

Hannibal nodded slowly. "And why did you think we would get in your way?"

I snorted. "Come on, don't you remember the time I took you to the restaurant where we found Lin Duk Coo? Or the time you got me thrown out of the Beverly Bay Club? And if you're not ruining my reputation, you're mocking my lifestyle. BA himself says all rich folks are crooks."

"You know he doesn't really believe that."

"Maybe not, but the point is, I couldn't live the life I wanted to with you guys looking over my shoulder, so I moved to New York. But things took a lot longer to get going than I expected, and . . . I guess I didn't want you to find out I was still living in a borrowed apartment and still working my way up the social ladder without much to show for it. So I didn't want to talk, and I didn't visit."

Hannibal sighed. "Face . . . after all these years, do you really think you still have to prove yourself to us? We're a team, and we're a family. That's never going to change. What's it going to take to get that into your head?"

I slid out of his hold so I could face him. "I know all that, Hannibal. And I don't need to prove myself to you. But, like I said . . . I wanted to prove myself to me." I swallowed hard. "To be honest, I know sometimes I worry too much what other people think of me. And I didn't want what you guys thought to, you know, control me, so I moved away to sort of convince myself I didn't need your approval."

"But instead, you found yourself trying to win the approval of a bunch of manipulative strangers," he finished.

I nodded sheepishly. "I guess that about sums it up."

Hannibal put his hand on my knee. "Okay, let's get one thing straight. There is nothing wrong with wanting the people you care about to think well of you. That's perfectly normal in good relationships. However, there is a serious problem when you pretend you don't need people and decide to isolate yourself from everyone who really does care about you. Everybody needs to be loved; that's not weakness, that's being human. So right now, you're in a situation where you're not getting the connection with people that you need to survive. You're actually being drained by trying to please people who can't give you anything in return. It's no wonder your mind and body are breaking down when, in a sense, you're starving yourself."

Once again, everything he said was making sense. I'd been trying so hard to be independent, I'd denied the reality that nobody can be completely independent – not really. The problem was, I didn't want to depend on other people. It gave them the power to hurt me. So I created fake relationships using my fake identities, and I never had to give up control. I also never made the satisfying connections that come once someone sees who you really are and still decides to stick around.

"What do you suggest?" I asked, bracing myself for an answer I probably didn't want to hear.

"You're not going to like this," Hannibal said, as if he could read my mind, "but I think it's the best answer. I think you should give up your little New York City playground and come to live either in Chicago with BA and Murdock or in L.A. with me. Then I think you should get a real house and a real job. Most importantly, figure out what you want your life to mean, and do whatever it takes to make that happen. You've got a chance very few people ever get: a chance for a completely fresh beginning. Make it count."

What did I want my life to mean? Deep down, I knew I wanted to help people . . . but the only way I knew how to do that was to get things for them. How was I supposed to make a difference by tying myself to a real job, a real life?

"But if I do all that," I said, "doesn't that kind of limit my options?"

Hannibal smiled. "Yes and no. Living a lifestyle based on scamming and knowing the right people limits your options too. It doesn't let you have anything that's permanent or real. Start making real commitments, and you'll have a real life to go along with it."

Commitments. The word sounded like a punch to the gut, and I found myself fighting to catch my breath.

"You know," I edged toward the opposite end of the couch, "that's just it. I-I don't think I can be committed to anyone or anything; I just can't handle that kind of pressure." Yep, I was definitely breathing faster now.

"Yes, you can," he said firmly. "You've done it before. You committed to joining the army, and you committed to being a part of the A-Team. Come hell or high water, Murdock, BA, and I have always known we could count on you. All you have to do is decide what's important enough for you to be committed to, and the rest will fall into place."

I looked into the ice-blue eyes of my former commanding officer and my friend. "I . . . I want to do it. But . . . I don't think I can do it alone."

There. It was out. I had admitted out loud the truth I'd always struggled to admit even to myself. I wasn't good enough. I didn't have it all together. I had no idea what I was doing. In other words, I needed help.

Hannibal clapped me on the back. "I'm here for you, kid. We're all here for you – BA, Murdock, and me. And we'll do whatever it takes to get you back on your feet, okay? Whatever it takes."

A lump rose in my throat. This was real. I asked for help, and my friends didn't leave me standing out in the cold. They were there for me, even after I tried to push them away. All it took was one phone call for Hannibal to fly coast to coast to check in on me. That was the kind of commitment I wanted to return.

"I'm sorry I avoided you guys," I said. Then my eyes filled, and I couldn't say anything else.

Hannibal pulled me into a tight hug – unusual for him, and exactly what I needed. "Don't worry about it," he said over my shoulder. "You're going to be okay now."

 _Three months later:_

Each step of the thirty-seven it took to get from my Vette to the door felt like trudging through a shoe-sucking quagmire . . . or quicksand. And I still hadn't decided what I was going to say. _I have a permanent address now; all I need is someone to share it with?_ No, too soon, way too soon for that. Maybe I could try the, _I was in the neighborhood, and I happened to have a cheesecake in the back seat, and I thought of you . . ._ Too obvious. Too tacky.

I sighed, shifting the cheesecake to my left arm so I could run my other hand through my hair. Great. I'd probably just demolished half an hour of gel and precise combing.

Hannibal had warned me about this.

"Are you sure you're ready to do this, kid?" he'd asked yesterday when I told him my plan. "You've made progress, but if this thing doesn't work out . . ."

"I can handle it," I reassured him. "I've got stuff to fall back on now, remember?"

After Hannibal had come out to New York to rescue me from my own bad choices, I decided to move back to L.A. with him. I didn't have a ton of stuff to move, so BA and Murdock drove up from Chicago, and BA transported my belongings in his van while Murdock drove my Corvette coast to coast. This freed me to fly out there with Hannibal since we agreed I wasn't really up to a four-day trip by car. I stayed in Hannibal's apartment, and the guys stayed for a week to help me get settled in and to spend a little time cruising the city together, just like old times.

After they left, Hannibal helped me look for a low-pressure job while making sure I was eating and sleeping enough and having fun now and then. Soon, I found a job I never would have taken if he hadn't coerced me into it: business manager for the Sacred Heart Orphanage. My natural ability with numbers wasn't the only quality that fit the bill; I found that making sure the orphans were well taken care of was really important to me. Something I could commit to. Not long after I took the job, I found myself organizing fundraisers and raising money using the skills of persuasion I'd possessed my whole life. And one day on a whim, I asked one of the Sisters if there were any boys who seemed especially troubled. That was the beginning of something that ended with my organizing a physical fitness program to train boys not only how to be strong and defend themselves, but how to do it in the right way for the right reasons. Hannibal got in on the action in his free time and became a favorite with the boys who came, and BA and Murdock even visited a couple times to give demonstrations on how to be most efficient in a fight and how to completely confuse and surprise your opponent, respectively.

Eventually, I'd recovered my strength enough to move out and take up residence in the house the team bought when we were acting as Stevie Faith's bodyguards. But although I had a house, a job, and a purpose, there was still something missing. The old, bygone dream of rotisserie chicken dinner on Sundays and 2.4 kids was resurfacing. And a more recent dream – one that circumstances had brought to an abrupt dead end a few years ago – had come back to haunt my waking hours.

So here I was, in front of her door, holding a cheesecake with strawberries on top, which was her favorite, and trying to work up the courage to ring the doorbell. An old cliché whose pain is only believable once experienced.

But I couldn't. Yet. First I had to decide what I was going to say. My mind was blank. I stared at the cheesecake in my hand, and inspiration struck. How about, _Am I too late for dessert?_ Good thought, but it shouldn't be said like a question. I could try, _I hope I'm not too late for dessert._ Yes. That was it.

I took a deep breath . . . and nothing happened. My hand refused to move toward the doorbell. Actually, it could be legitimately debated that I had failed to exert enough effort to make it move, but for the moment I'd just pretend it wasn't my fault at all; that the fault lay entirely in my suddenly, inexplicably paralyzed hand. Something entirely out of my control. I looked longingly at my Vette parked down the street.

The door suddenly opened, and I nearly jumped out of my Armani shoes. In front of me stood a little boy about eight years old with a head of unruly blond hair and wide blue eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, less accusatory than curious.

"Uhh . . ." I stammered. "Wrong house. Sorry."

He looked at me for a second, then turned and yelled into the house. "Mommy, it's that man who punched Uncle Johnny!"

Uncle Johnny? At first my mind went to Hannibal, but that couldn't be right. Oh. Johnny Turian. Of course. And this must be . . . Eric. A few years older, and several inches taller.

Footsteps inside. My heart sank. There was no getting out of it now.

"Templeton?"

There she was. After all these years, standing right in front of me and just as breathtaking as ever. My mouth went dry. What clever quip had I decided to use? I couldn't remember now. I wasn't even sure I could talk.

And then, she was hugging me around the neck and saying, "Oh, Templeton! I missed you so much!"

I relaxed. It was all right. Everything was all right. In fact, it had never been so right before. Now, she was in my arms, and I was pretty sure she hadn't even noticed the cheesecake, or whether my hair was messed up. And now I knew I didn't even need a clever quip . . . so I just told the truth, from my heart:

"I missed you too, Rina."


End file.
